“Wot’s it like in the country?” asked Raven abruptly.
The earl thought for a long moment. How to explain to these boys the wonders of exploring the fields and woods, the magic of catching polliwogs or spying a badger’s sett? Of climbing trees, of wrestling matches in new-mown hay. Of biting into a fresh-picked apple and letting the sweet juice dribble down one’s chin.
“There’s no smoke in the air,” he answered slowly. “It’s quiet, and you can walk for miles without seeing any people.”
Their faces scrunched in thought, as if they were trying to imagine such a foreign world.
The click of the door latch lifting forestalled any further talk. He turned as Charlotte entered the room, a pasteboard box carefully cradled in her arms. She looked pensive, preoccupied—until her eyes met his.
Then her expression turned to wariness.
Trouble, he reminded himself. To her, he was naught but Trouble.
“He was waiting outside,” explained Raven quickly, “and said it was important. I figgered it was best to let him in.”
“Yes, you did the right thing,” assured Charlotte with a forced smile. She took a moment to set the box down on the table. “You lads have your lessons with Mr. Keating soon. Gather your books and be off. It would not do to be late.”
“But we’ve plenty of—” began Hawk, only to be silenced by a nudge from his brother.
“Aye, we best be going,” said Raven, rising quickly. “Come on.”
Charlotte waited until they were out of the house before speaking again. When she did it was simply to issue a curt challenge. “Well?”
“I think you know why I’m here.”
She turned and busied herself with adding a few chunks of coal to the stove.
“You are angry.” A statement, not a question.
“I am curious.”
More thumps, and the metallic rasp of raking the embers to life. The door clanked shut.
Charlotte swung around and placed a fist on her hip. “I daresay you can be both.”
Wrexford acknowledged the statement with a gruff laugh. She, of all people, understood the complexities and contradictions of human emotion. “I daresay you are right. But anger seems a waste of time. While curiosity may yield some useful information. I had not realized that your tentacles reached into the inner sanctums of the aristocracy.”
“I warned you, no secrets are safe in London.”
“So you did.” He paused. “I simply assumed—”
“Assumed what, sir?” she cut in. “That you had purchased my silence?”
Strangely enough, the thought had never occurred to him. “Could I have done so?” he asked, half amused at his own lack of guile.
“Don’t toy with me, sir. This is no jesting matter.”
“I am well aware of that, Mrs. Sloane.” He had stood up when she entered the room. As she moved back toward the table, his shadow fell across her face, hiding her expression. “There has been another murder this morning.”
Charlotte sat down heavily, her face leaching of all color. “Who?”
“A man named Drummond. An acquaintance of Lord Canaday,” answered Wrexford. “And of mine, in case that was your next question.”
She sat still as a stone. He wasn’t sure she had heard him.
“Mrs. Sloane?”
“I mentioned him in my print. And now he is dead.”
